


Punch Drunk

by lastSaskatchewanPirate



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual Sex, M/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 09:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16910559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastSaskatchewanPirate/pseuds/lastSaskatchewanPirate
Summary: Megatron survives his first pit fight.  Impactor totally wasn't worried at all.





	Punch Drunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MlleMusketeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleMusketeer/gifts).



> Continuity? What continuity? I was chatting with MlleMusketeer and the idea of a young Megatron after his first big fight, battle-drunk and enthusiastically banging someone in celebration, somehow came up. So I wrote about it.

Impactor was not fidgeting.

He wasn’t fidgeting because huge mechs with harpoon-gun hands do not fidget, and because fidgeting would imply that he was nervous about something – likewise an impossibility; huge harpoon-handed mechs did not get nervous, it wasn’t in their programming – and because there was no reason to fidget, no reason at all.

It might also have had something to do with the fact that the room in which he was waiting was approximately the size of a closet, thus rendering it almost physically impossible for him to fidget. Certainly there wasn’t enough room to pace, so naturally he had settled for sitting gingerly on the edge of the warped, rusted, energon-stained slab of metal that was supposedly a berth; and if he happened to be assiduously picking microscopic traces of rust off his harpoon, well, that was just basic maintenance.

The tiny cell in which he waited was far enough below ground-level that the screams and roars and thunderous clashes of mech against mech, weapon against weapon, blade against armor, were muffled and distant. As Impactor carefully did not listen to the distant turmoil while he equally carefully did not fidget, the tumult rose to a pitch of such intensity that it was almost possible to distinguish actual words.

After a few minutes, the screaming and thudding of ten thousand stamping feet began to die down; and a few minutes after that, Impactor heard footsteps in the hallway outside and the cheerful aural assault of heavy-builds bickering good-naturedly; and a few minutes after that, someone fumbled with the door lock and then, apparently deciding that fine-motor control was for other people at the moment, simply kicked the door off its hinges.

Impactor jumped to his feet, mostly to avoid having his kneecaps sheared off by the door collapsing inward, and promptly slammed his head into the ceiling.

The static cleared from his vision to reveal Megatron in the doorway, vents still heaving to cool him, arms and hands slicked with energon, armor dented and battered, and his eyes glowing like coals.

“I did it,” he said, sounding vaguely surprised.

“Apparently so, since you’re standing here and not being thrown on the scrap heap,” said Impactor, who had totally not been envisioning that eventuality with mounting dread this whole evening.

Megatron nodded as though Impactor had said something profound, and staggered into the room. On closer inspection, and no longer backlit from the hallway, Megatron looked kind of dazed; Impactor was reminded of the time an equipment sled had broken lose and swung around to hit Megatron square in the back of the helm. It hadn’t done him any particular long-term damage, but the impact had left Megatron in a rather loopy and entertainingly suggestible state for several hours.

Megatron tossed the energon-covered shard of what used to be a sword rather casually to the floor and then looked around as if searching for a clue as to what he was supposed to do next. That smelter-hot gaze fell on Impactor after a wandering, undirected moment, and Megatron brightened visibly, and then lurched a step forward to grab Impactor by the shoulders and lean on him rather heavily.

“I did it,” he repeated, and a grin broke over his face – triumph and relief and a sort of unhinged glee, which together with Megatron’s usually severe, angular features made him look surprisingly goofy. Impactor took an image capture for future blackmail opportunities and then pounded his friend good-naturedly on the back, which Megatron absorbed without comment.

“You sure did.” Impactor took a closer look at Megatron’s eyes, which was aided considerably by their current proximity, and then added, “you see a medic yet?”

Megatron made a disdainful noise not unlike a mining loader sliding down a gravel embankment, which Impactor translated as both a negative and a dismissal of the idea as pertinent.

Well, whatever; Megs was a big mech, and if he was going to be fragging stupid enough to enter a pit fight then he could deal with the consequences.

Impactor slapped Megatron on the back again and then tried to jostle him lose, with no effect whatsoever; he might as well have tried to jostle the Arena itself, and might in fact have had more results in that case. “You wanna go celebrate, champ?”

Megatron cocked his head to one side, as though doing so might get his processor realigned well enough for basic functionality. “Celebrate?”

“Yeah!” Impactor resigned himself to being Megatron’s prop for a little while longer – not too much, hopefully; the mech outweighed him significantly and Impactor’s joints were starting to protest the load – and grinned encouragingly. “Let’s go find some high-grade and some company.” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway with a jerk of his chin. “Bet there’s any number of pretty little things who’d love to help you relax after that match …”

Megatron frowned a little. Impactor could see the higher-level processes coming back online and groaned internally, because if Megatron decided that what he really wanted to do was go write some fragging poetry about the experience, Impactor was going to introduce this harpoon to some vulnerable yet tragically underused portions of Megatron’s anatomy.

“No,” said Megatron slowly, and Impactor braced himself in order to free his harpoon; “no, I don’t want a pretty little thing right now.”

And then those hot red eyes locked on Impactor’s, and a rare, wicked, slag-eating grin curled Megatron’s lip enough to bare his fangs, and Megatron’s voice dropped an octave as his engine down-shifted and he added, low and rasping in a way Impactor had never heard him speak before, “I think I’d rather have _you_.”

Impactor stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. “Mech, I think you took one too many blows to the head.”

Megatron just shook his head, eyes gleaming, and Impactor could feel the heat coming off him. “I don’t want some pretty little thing right now. I don’t want to have to hold myself back.” Megatron’s hands, still tacky with drying energon, moved down from Impactor’s shoulders to seize him by the upper arms; and before Impactor could ask what the frag Megatron thought he was playing at, he found himself pinned against the wall.

“I don’t think I _can_ hold myself back right now,” Megatron admitted, sounding a little rueful and a great deal more like his usual self, and not at all as though he had just slammed Impactor bodily against a wall; “so if this isn’t something you want, you should tell me right now, and I’ll go find someone else.”

Impactor looked at Megatron for a moment – the hot red stare was clear now, whatever dazedness he’d been dealing with was gone; and the heat rippling off his body was overwhelming; and there was something new there, a new confidence, a self-possession he hadn’t had, a presence in his own body and his own space that he’d never worn.

It was, Impactor had to admit, really fragging attractive.

So was the deep rumble of an engine powerful enough to shift bedrock, and the vibrations being transmitted through their plating was ending up in some pretty convincing places, and Impactor decided that standing around dithering was, like fidgeting and worrying, something that huge harpoon-handed mechs simply didn’t do.

So he grinned back, and saw Megatron’s eyes widen and then crease at the corners as the wicked grin made its reappearance. “You step out that door and I’ll break your knees,” Impactor offered, and then revved his engine to get the point across.

Megatron laughed, and pushed him a little more firmly against the wall. “I’d like to see you try.”

“How ‘bout you show me what you’re offering instead?” said Impactor; and this was the sticking point, where Megatron’s cocky self-assurance would falter … or not. Impactor was surprised by how much he was hoping for “or not.”

And Megatron stared into his eyes, and curled the tip of his tongue around one gleaming fang, and then the unmistakable sound of a minor transformation sequence came from the general vicinity of his groin; and Impactor looked down and could not for the life of him hide his glee over how well “or not” was turning out.

“Frag,” said Impactor appreciatively.

“That’s the plan, yes,” said Megatron, “now open your damn panel.”

Impactor was going to argue, just to be contrary if nothing else, but then Megatron rocked against him, hips driving up and in, and there was a hot sweet lurch of sensation against bare protoform, and some very sensitive sensors were informing Impactor loud and clear that his panel had in fact opened despite his intentions to keep it closed; and damn, that spike felt as good as it looked.

Some of Impactor’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Megatron laughed; and then one big energon-tacky hand was under Impactor’s knee, forcing it up and out in a stretch that was just on the edge of too much. Megatron lifted Impactor’s leg a little further, forcing him onto his toes, and then slotted himself between Impactor’s wide-splayed thighs.

“Still okay?”

It was Impactor’s turn to make a rude, dismissive noise. Megatron just waited, eyes burning, not moving, until Impactor sighed theatrically. “ _Yes_ , frag, just get on with it.”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,” Megatron growled, but he did in fact get on with it, and Impactor sucked in an unexpectedly deep invent as he was opened, slowly and inexorably, by a spike that felt even bigger than it had looked.

It would have been extremely unpleasant, except that Impactor realized he was actually embarrassingly well-lubed and warm and generally all kinds of ready for a good hard frag, and when had that happened?

“Uh,” said Impactor, which was about the extent of his eloquence at the moment. Megatron wasn’t pounding him terribly hard, just thrusting steadily and grinding deep, and Impactor’s knee joints were going all liquid from the steadily-building arousal. He was going to overload very quickly at this rate, and he wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed by that or just really, really eager for it.

“Go ahead,” said Megatron in that low rasp, and there was a weight of command and dominance behind it that had never been there before. Impactor went over the edge with a shout, head knocking back against the wall, and Megatron fragged him right through the overload and the sensitivity and into the long slow climb to a second one.

Fortunately that long slow climb gave Impactor the chance to regain a microscopic amount of lucidity; specifically, it gave him the processor cycles he needed in order to identify the proximity alerts in his HUD.

“You know the door’s open,” said Impactor, as Megatron hoisted him a little higher up the wall and continued fragging him like he had all the time in the world.

Megatron grunted in response, and bit at Impactor’s collar fairing.

“And we have an audience,” Impactor continued. It was true; the sound of their clanging had attracted a crowd. It looked like some of them were taking bets. It also looked like some of them would have attempted to join in already, had the room been big enough to hold anyone else.

“Let ‘em watch,” said Megatron, which was sufficiently out of character that Impactor found himself revisiting the traumatic head injury question.

“In that case, how ‘bout you actually give them something worth watching?” Impactor goaded.

Megatron pulled back far enough to glare at him, though he didn’t stop moving. “I’m clearly not fragging you hard enough if you can still talk this much slag.”

Impactor grinned back at Megatron, relieved – Megatron had thrown him for more than one loop today, several of them in the last five minutes, and the return of the friendly bickering was more of a relief than he was willing to admit even to himself.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” said Impactor, and kicked Megatron a little with the upraised leg. “Now get on with it. I thought you didn’t want to hold back, mech; if this is you not holding back, then it’s no wonder you can’t get a date.”

Megatron groaned. “Oh Primus, just shut up already.”

“Make me,” said Impactor.

Megatron promptly kissed him, biting at his lips, and then took a firmer grip on Impactor’s aft and pounded him hard enough to crack the wall behind him.

Impactor thought it was possible that some of the watching mechs actually applauded, but he was too busy drowning in his third overload to be sure.


End file.
